Entre Nous
by HeavenSeemsClose
Summary: Voldemort as fallen and the Death Eaters have scattered. In a time where order is being pieced back together, an Auror and an exDeath Eater have a reunion underneath a shelter against a violent rainstorm. Draco x Hermione
1. Chapter 1

Note: First HP fanfic, dedicated to my friend. Post-HP series (I don't really know the conclusion, so let's let our imaginations do the works, shall we?)

Summary: Voldemort has fallen and the Death Eaters have scattered. In a time where order is being pieced back together, an Auror and an ex-Death Eater have a reunion underneath a shelter against a violent rainstorm. Draco x Hermione.

* * *

An umbrella hits the stone pavement and water droplets scatter only to coalesce back into the muddy puddles. A few ripples, in reaction, temporarily distort a reflection of a pouting face. If not for the disruption of the image by the constant rain, the image would be of the epitome of youthful beauty, lingering on womanhood --- but only lingering.

The beauty buries her face into her hands and muffles a cry of frustration. She's cold, and she blows warm breaths into her cupped palms in a futile effort to keep warm. Such brutal weather is not something expected during summer; a stormy grey colors the sky.

Her breath is visible against the cold, soft puffs seen only for a fraction of a second before melting back into the invisible. She shivers.

The umbrella sits there in silent abandonment.

* * *

She cursed. Herminone Granger was not one to curse without a valid reason. This situation, she had decided a moment ago, provided a perfectly valid reason to let out a small curse. _Dammit_.

Ah, but one curse word didn't seem to satisfy her frustration.

"Dammit, dammit, dammit…" she took a deep breath, her next word a mutt between a sigh and a groan, "_damn_,"

With each word, she shook her head, the brown ringlets pasted onto her scalp breaking free of their bond to fall about her face. She lifted her chin, only to analyze her situation once more. She eyed the grey skies and the constant rain with a scowl on her lips.

She considered herself intelligent. Yes, by society's standards –both wizard and muggle- she was considered an elite in almost every subject. So, why…_why _was it that she had decided to leave her home to run a minor errand when there were obvious signs of rain?

'_The news said **rain, **_not _a bloody _storm_,' _she leaned against the wall, banging her head against the walls of a foreign apartment, wallowing in frustration.

* * *

A figure runs within the downpour. His steps are frantic and he seems perhaps a bit lost. He is becoming increasingly agitated as he takes each step further into the rain. His fingers, turned blue from the unforgiving cold, draw the heavy cloak sitting upon his shoulders closer to his body. He spots a sanctuary from the battering of the rain, and runs towards it; he is no longer lost.

The man removes the cloak, intent upon wringing out whatever liquid absorbed during his run towards his shelter. His figure is lean, and he is tall; yet more a boy than a man. He growls, struggling to keep the ends of the cloak above the puddles upon the pavement. Giving up, he throws his cloak on top of an umbrella.

The cloak sits there in silent abandonment.

* * *

He looked. Draco Malfoy let out a curse. He was not happy with his current situation. 

"…Malfoy," the woman hissed and she ceased the banging of her head to shift as far away from him as possible.

"…_Granger_," he was a Slytherin; he could hiss with far more venom than a mere Gryffindor.

* * *

She narrows her eyes and he glares back, a similar scowl reflects upon each of their faces. Simultaneously, they decide to ignore each other presence, for that is far easier than to initiate a battle of words during this miserable situation. Malfoy leans against the wall, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He attempts to suppress the shivers threatening to overtake him. After all, a Malfoy never shows weaknesses in the presence of an enemy. He bites his lip to keep his chin from quivering, but _God _it's so _damn _cold. 

The silent Gryffindor watches the snake shudder. She muses to herself. What would she do if the snake, being the cold-blooded animal it is, keels over and succumbs to the spiral of death in its hibernation? Would she, the honorable and kind Gryffindor let down her wings in an attempt to save an enemy whom forsakes her? Herminone closes her eyes; she already knows the answer.

"If you rubs your hands together and then place them on your face, you'll feel a lot warmer," she speaks, opting to save the poor Slytherine, at the cost of her own humiliation.

The snake reels, whipping its blond matted head around to glare viciously at its winged rescuer, "Shut your mouth, _Mudblood_, I don't need your sympathy," his eyes reflect the melancholy color of the sky.

Herminone bites her lip, scowling as she turns her back on the ungrateful wizard. Minutes later, she hears the faint sounds of hands rubbing against each other amidst the splashes of the rain.

Hours pass by, and Herminone glances up at the sky again. The rain shows no sign of letting up and releases a sudden powerful rush of downpour as if to laugh at the two house members' cold misery. She notes that the puddles from before are no longer puddles, but rivers, gathering even more comrades of water within its violent trenched currents.

_Merlin_, she thinks, _only a miracle could help me now._

Herminone glances at Malfoy, and realizes that he is thinking the exact same thing. Now, a little conversation seemed all too welcome; a time catalyst in their misery.

"So…what are _you _doing here?" she scolds herself for accidentally sounding acidic in her attempt to make polite conversation.

Malfoy snaps to look at her, a bit of anger in his expression. Then, his countenance softens and a small smirk spreads over his lips.

"Oh, none of your business, Granger, but I must say that your Muggle-world is as unpleasant as I had expected it to be…"

Wrath flashes past her eyes are her censures evaporate, much like the small puffs of breath barely seen escaping from Malfoy's lips.

"_You're _the only unpleasant thing around here, Malfoy,"

Draco glares, meeting the Gryffindor's eye with equal wrath in his eyes. He finds her lips pushed together in a pout, and occasionally she nibbles at her bottom lip and a small warm breath escapes her. Small water droplets cling to her long lashes and refuse to fall away under the intense heat of her glare upon Malfoy. Draco finds his eyes roaming her image, the way her hair clings to her long neck, the way her skin illuminates under the dull lighting of the lamp stuck onto the wall they leaned against. If not for her ancestry, Draco would have considered her attractive.

Herminone, uncomfortable under his gaze, takes her chance to search him. His blond locks disheveled and free from the gel usually pasting his pale golden locks to his scalp, he looks much better with his bangs framing his handsome face, occasionally hiding the eyes that glint with quick wit and intelligence. His complexion is of a light, healthy tan from his constant training on the Quidditch field. If not for his asshole-attitude, Hermione would have considered him attractive.

Draco considers Hermione's heritage, and Hermione considers his personality. An icy wind blows and the two break their silent battle. If the wind hadn't blown, perhaps there would have been a chance for a small friendship between them.

_Perhaps._

The rain doesn't seem to be thinking of letting up. The clouds blink with occasional lightning, and the wind is becoming unbelievably chilly. A car drives by and the water sloshes underneath the tires.

Herminone hears a shudder. She turns her head, to see the Slytherin nearly dying of the cold. His hands are rubbing furiously together.

"God _damn _it, Granger, your bloody technique isn't working…" he manages to breathe out before shivering violently.

He feels arms wrap around him, and for that instant, warmth floods him. His eyes close in silent appreciation for the Gryffindor's wings, protecting him from the violent cold. His hand wrap around her thin arms hidden by her thick coat, and he allows himself to lean back against her; to let his head cradle in the crook of her slender neck. Hermione responds, tilting her chin down to rest upon his shoulder, she gently lets out a nervous breath she hadn't been aware of.

For that moment, the two enemies seem content with each other, too exhausted to find an alternate route to end their misery within the bone chilling cold.

Time passes, and Draco can feel that he is more at ease with the Gryffindor. He shifts against her, much more closely, letting that radiant heat pass through him; that heat from the passionate, impossibly intelligent girl he despised during his Hogwart years; the same girl that had possessed enough gull to punch him; the same girl that he had pushed to tears with his mockery. Perhaps he had been jealous of her, because no matter what he did, he would never satisfy his father while the mudblood would more than satisfy everyone surrounding her. His pale fingers reach out to grab onto a lock of her auburn hair, curled so exquisitely against the breast of her coat. Silently, he wonders, as he lets out a shuddering breath, what is it that makes her so perfect and warm right now?

Hermione feels the gentle tug of her hair, and she quickly glances down to see Malfoy's long, slender fingers curled around her wet lock; long, slender fingers that had never seen labor. Suddenly, she is aware of his warm breaths against her neck. She is nervous. Warmth floods her cheek and she briefly feels a bit too warm. His weight against her bosom makes her sensitive; she draws a shuddering breath. Nevertheless, her want to protect him from the biting cold is much stronger and she hugs him even closer.

From far away, they look like lovers enjoying each other's company.

Draco realizes their closeness. It's painfully obvious now. He acts on a sudden impulse. For that moment, he doesn't feel like a Slytherin and she doesn't seem like a Gryffindor. His fingers tighten around her locks, and his hand moves swiftly up her graceful neck. His body shifts upwards.

His lips meet hers.

He shudders, his body no longer frozen. Her lips spread warmth to him; her mouth ambrosia to his starved body. He dominates, his height taking advantage of hers as he properly traps her between the stone wall and him. She makes a startled noise, but it doesn't matter anymore. He is, for a moment, everywhere; holding her, cradling her, pressing himself against her warmth craving more ---- more. She is perfect to him. Her scent, her lips, her hair – suddenly they're everything he's ever wanted as he molds himself against her.

The young witch realizes too late –when she is already within the serpent's grasp and her wings pinned. Draco's other hand is already at her wrist and his chest so close to her own. Her eyes flutter shut and the teen relishes in the temporary warmth of _him_. She kisses back, albeit reluctantly, but soon melts within his passion. Her cheeks flush with heat, her mouth parting slightly in an effort to take in some air between the smaller, lighter kisses. The serpent is squeezing the life out of her and she struggles to breathe.

Their breaths solidify in the air, a myriad of white mist traveling about their faces, curling around their hair and brushing against their flushed skin…

Hermione is the first to part, but she had held onto him as long as her lungs had allowed. Her eyes drift behind him, past his sun-kissed locks.

Raindrops are no longer falling, and the puddles have stopped distorting an upside down view of her world.

She doesn't think, she can't even see – she runs away from the wizard, her steps a mad flurry as she runs across the puddles, soaking her shoes. Where is she going? She doesn't know.

"Hermione!" his voice rings after her, chasing her.

The witch doesn't look back. Her figure disappears as her warmth fades from the serpent's starved body.

Her umbrella sits there in silent abandonment, next to his cloak.

* * *

She is crying. She doesn't know why. Her hands find her eyes, furiously wiping away tears falling angrily down her pale cheeks. _It's childish, _she thinks, before stopping to crouch nearby a wall, not caring if her shoes are soaked. She seems utterly defeated, and she doesn't know _why_. Sobs escape her; she no longer knows where she is or why she is crying. 

It's all a big blur.

His face is a blur. Those soft locks of hair, the stormy eyes – all blurred with his fair, creamy complexion. His voice…his voice is ringing in her ears.

_"Hermione!_"

She cries even harder. Her hands do not know what to do; one moment they are in her thick hair in a gesture of frustration, the next they grip the small shoulders shaking so uncontrollably. Hermione reasons that she is just cold.

She regains her footing, teetering a bit before walking away from her misery with increasingly bold steps. She was Hermione Granger, an auror of the Ministry of Magic, and one of the most brilliant witches of the age.

And she would never be afraid of some _Death Eater_.

* * *

Draco can only stare. She had run from him in a terrified frenzy. All he could remember is her expression. Tears clinging to her thick lashes while pushing him away. Immediately, he becomes angry. Of course, a Gryffindor would never want to associate with the likes of him…no one really came near the Slytherins any more. Years of shame follows him still, the fall of Voldemort has left him utterly vulnerable. Only his father's inheritance supports him now. 

He thinks back to Hermione's warmth, her acceptance; her arms wrapping around him, providing a hospice within a world so against him. He feels as if he is suffocating beneath her, her kindness and her concern---- all for him in that one moment.

He slaps himself mentally; never, _ever _would he allow himself to think of her. He feels his mind drifting towards her once more.

_Get a grip, Draco. _

He seeks to return to his home, and searches for his coat. Beneath the black, he spots the fiery shade of an umbrella. He thinks to leave it there, and torture the little witch for her actions.

But what had she done wrong?

He cannot answer. Sighing, he grabs the umbrella and walks off, gently avoiding the puddles in fear of soaking his shoes.

* * *

The ministry was overflowing with life as usual. Papers everywhere, creatures to the left and to the right; it felt like home. Hermione walked in through the familiar doors, wet shoes and all, with a tall, confident posture, greeting her fellow workers with a smile on her face despite the earlier events of the day. A pixie of a dark-blue hue immediately flew up to her, a familiar giggle ringing in the air. She flew around Hermione's figure until the witch sighed and waved her hand to stop her informant. 

"What is it now, Shive?" after all, she was in no mood to entertain today.

The pixie stopped after a final turn in the air, fluttering her wings vehemently in annoyance at Hermione, "You know, it'd be nice if you would say my _full _name for once," her voice was deeper than the normal pixie's which made it easier for Hermione to understand her. Shive had been with her ever since her first year at the Ministry, assigned to be the young auror's informant and guide through the hidden mazes of the building.

The witch laughed, "Well, it'd be nice if your full name was even remotely pronounceable," she flung a bit of water at the blue creature in a friendly gesture, "but I know that's not the reason you flew up to me with such urgency," that little pixie never did anything outside her job description.

"Ah, as perceptive as always Miss Granger," Shive immediately grew serious, the rhythm of her wings growing steady, "We've located the whereabouts of Crabbe and Goyle – well, Crabbe at least. Goyle was ambushed by a team of our aurors…he didn't want to be taken into custody; too afraid of Azkaban, I guess," her color dulled in reflex to her melancholy mood. Although the Death Eaters had terrified even the race of pixies, Shive didn't find their deaths amusing unlike her other companions. After all, these boys were _children_…

Voldemort had fallen after a long, grueling war. The Death Eaters were scattered and the Ministry was back in power. It was now up to the aurors to capture the remaining followers of the Dark Lord and bring them into custody – to damn them to the ultimate fate of Azkaban. The pixie settled her eyes upon Hermione, who seemed to be deep in thought. Hermione had become an auror at the age of 23, along with Harry Potter and Ronald Weasely. They didn't need to pass exams; after all, they had been saving both the Wizarding and Muggle worlds from Voldemort since they were 13. The Order of the Phoenix made it clear that they were more than capable of being aurors. They even lead their own separate teams, scanning the two worlds for any remaining Death Eaters.

But the point was, they were still _children_.

"Was anyone on our team seriously injured?" Hermione broke the pixie out of thought, and Shive tried her best to hide her morose thoughts.

"Ron Weasly took a shot to the shoulder, but he isn't anything even _close _to critical," the pixie laughed, "in fact, he's goofing off in Potter's office, acting out a story of how he bravely rescued Miss Lovegood from a deadly curse," Hermione could imagine him now, waving around his bandaged arm and shoulder while posing once in a while for effect. Shive took this chance to leave the young witch to her musings, intent upon finishing her own job at the Ministry as an informant.

Hermione rolled her eyes before leaving for her office. She was in no mood today to deal with Ron's idiotic fantasies, although he _was _an excellent actor.

_Perhaps he should've pursued a career in acting, _Hermione grinned at the thought, entering her office. She hung her coat, grabbing the wand out of the pocket to cast a small spell into the fireplace.

"Incendio," immediately, warmth flooded the room, coating the office with an amber hue and magnifying the contours of her paperwork and her little muggle trinkets spread throughout.

She took off her shoes, sighing in relief as the cold, suffocating feeling on her feet gradually disappeared. She left the shoes by the fireside. Sometimes, she preferred to dry things the muggle way – especially if it meant that she could return her feet to a warm toasty feeling when leaving the Ministry later in the day. Her socks, too, went to dry by the fire.

Quick flicks of her wand immediately got her ready for work; her hair was dried, her blouse was no longer clinging to her shivering body, and all her paperwork was neatly organized onto small, separately categorized stacks. Soon, she would bend over her desk in concentration, scribbling furiously away at seemingly important documents.

That is, if _someone _hadn't come into her office without permission.

She turned to the sound of her door clicking shut to see one of her most cherished friends by the door. Harry Potter stood back against her door, a mischievous smirk on his lips as he quirked a brow at her. Hermione felt herself cringe at his expression. It was never good when Harry had such a countenance this early a work day.

"Hermione," he approached her with slow, calculated steps, as if he was afraid that she'd lash out at him with one of her infamous shin kicks, "Guess what?" his smirk broadened.

She eyed him, crossing her arms in front of her, perhaps for comfort, "What, Harry?"

He had grown. Perhaps seeing Malfoy this morning made her realize how much everyone had grown. Harry was now pretty tall, his dark hair messy as ever, framing his piercing blue eyes glinting with humor behind his glasses. His scar had faded along with Voldemort's death, but he didn't need the scar to be identified as the Boy-Who-Lived anymore. After all, his success at defeating the Dark Lord had put his face on every newspaper known in the wizarding world. He had even given the opening speech for the Quidditch World Cup.

"She said, '_Yes_'!" he suddenly yelled, breaking the young witch out of her reminiscence.

"What?" Hermione blinked a few times in confusion, and realized what her friend meant, "Oh…_oh_! When?" she grew giddy, but this was perfectly acceptable when a wedding was involved.

Harry's reply was cut short when a certain Ron Weasly walked into the room, his bright red hair merging into the warm atmosphere of Hermione's office. He was no longer the goofy looking child the witch had known when she was attending Hogwarts, instead, he stood a bit taller than Harry, his fiery mane grown long enough to be tied into a small ponytail at the base of his neck.

Hermione grabbed his arm, "Did you know?"

Ron gave a knowing smile, "Yup," for once, he knew something she didn't.

"And you didn't tell me?"

"Thought Harry might want to tell you,"

Hermione repeated her long-lost question, "_When_!?"

The two wizards laughed, Ron slapping Harry's back, "Well, go on mate, tell her,"

"Yesterday," Harry grinned, pride oozing from every pore of his body, "I asked her in a really awkward way, really," a small blush crept up his pale cheeks in memory.

Hermione frowned, "Oh?" Harry could _not _have ruined the most important day in a girl's life! Yet Harry's blush told her a different story.

Ron suddenly laughed, cutting into the conversation, "You wouldn't _believe _it Hermione –Ginny said that it was actually amusing now that she's thought about it – but Harry…you see what happened was, Harry was out patrolling his area for the night with his team, which happened to be where Ginny was at the time, although _everyone _was warned not to leave the house during those hours…" his face became immediately animated, a flush settling onto his cheeks, his wounded shoulder shifting about as he attempted to make exaggerating gesticulations.

"Ron!" Harry shoved his friend, his expression somewhat between a plea not to tell his embarrassing story and extreme humiliation. Whatever Harry was hiding, it had to be good. Hermione allowed herself a small smirk, eyes fixed on Ron to encourage him to finish his story. This would decide Harry's fate: a good kick to the shin for ruining the happiest moment of a girl's life, or a congratulatory hug for the groom-to-be.

Ron, seeing Hermione's support, raised a hand to calm his best friend down, "Hold up, Harry, I'm trying to tell a story here, mate," Ron crossed his arms, his expression too similar to that of the Weasley twins before mischief, "As I was saying, 'Mione, a false alarm about a Death Eater sighting instantly put Harry into a run after the nearest stranger he saw—."

"_Silencio_!" Ron's voice abruptly stopped, and the redhead looked towards his friend in righteous indignation. His mouth, however, never stopped moving as he commanded Harry to remove the spell to no avail. The brunette merely laughed, pocketing his wand before grabbing Ron by the shoulders to lead him out of Hermione's office.

Ron's mouth never ceased moving, his ears turning a slight shade of red in humorous anger, glaring at the dark-haired auror.

Hermione, in turn, was missing a huge, climactic point of the story. She, too, glared at Harry, "Harry James Potter," her voice took a sharp tone, her hands on her hips, "You return his voice _right_ now," Ron nodded furiously in agreement.

"I'll tell you the story later, Hermione," Harry grinned, "_way_ later," he closed the door behind him, the young witch running to stop him from leaving until he blockaded her door from the other side. Her fingers gripped the doorknob rattling the poor thing and yelling promises of jinxes to last him until next year; until a nearby portrait on the wall kindly asked her to stop (he had been napping).

"**_Fine_**, _then, I'll just ask Ginny myself!" _she yelled a final time, her shoulders heaving and her lips gathered into a small pout. The most important story of the year and she had been cut short! Harry Potter was an absolute --- "He's impossible, anyway," she stomped towards her desk, plopping herself down to start working on the ever-growing pile of paper on her desk. They towered over her easily (or at least, they _seemed _to tower over her in her point of view).

Hermione sighed. She supposed she would have to get started _someday_. Her fingers carelessly reached for the top-most item, a thick manila folder, and placed the contents of it before her. Her eyes scanned the documents restlessly, brows furrowing once in a while in confusion.

Gregory Goyle's picture moved in front of her, twisting around the corner of a dark alley before firing haphazardly into a team of aurors. She saw Ron, falling back after a hit to the shoulder, and Luna Lovegood dropping the chase to check on Ron's injuries. She had grown too; long, blond hair (now curled) framing her small face, her silver-grey eyes lit up under the moonlight. She was no longer the simple-minded, gullible girl of the past. During the war, she immediately volunteered her services and joined the Order of the Phoenix, just like how she had joined Dumbledore's Army long ago. Despite all that, she still retained some of her dazed moments, and often found herself lost and found, conveniently, by Ron Weasely.

_'Bravely rescued Miss Lovegood from a deadly curse, my ass, Ron Weasley,' _Hermione grinned.

Luna's and Ron's image faded, replaced with the conclusion of the chase. Goyle finally fell, his small and dull eyes closing in rest, taken down by a team of aurors and spells. He looked the exact opposite of what he was in his youth; dirty and sickly, with dark circles underneath his eyes. His hair was no longer a clean, short cut from her memories, but a shaggy mop, hanging near his ears in large, dirty chunks. The only thing even remotely resembling his younger self was his double-chin lumbering about his neck.

_'We never meant harm, Goyle...but you chose this path,' _Hermione found herself feeling pity for the boy. Although he was manipulated by his ancestry and his friends, Goyle had had a chance to back down when he was cornered. The dead man's face reminded her of his "friends" during his years in Hogwarts. It reminded her of Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy.

His creamy complexion no longer blurred his features, his cold, steely eyes coming into focus within her mind. His pale, blond hair stood in sharp contrast to his dark clothes as he lay bundled in her arms.

She scowled, violently turning the pages of the documents; anything, _anything, _to get rid of his image. Various pictures flew at her; Vincent Crabbe, Carrows, Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott – all Death Eaters caught or deceased. It still unnerved her that such young students (they hadn't even finished their Seventh Year) had become killers…murderers of families and fellow students…

His face…his face kept dancing in front of all of the others'. His face when she had punched him during her third year, his face when he had attempted to murder Professor Dumbledore…his face as he shivered in her arms before he kissed her. His kiss broke his way through her mental barrier now, and a slight flush came to her cheeks. His hands upon her wrists…his body pressing against hers in a desperate attempt to be warm…

"Go _away,_"she waved her hand in an effort to dissipate his image. Now, Hermione knew she had to stop. She couldn't work anymore. He would drive her insane at this rate. A quick glance at her clock and her diminished stack of work told her exactly what time it was: time to go home.

She moved quickly. Draco Malfoy's memory had no time to catch up with her as long as she kept herself moving at maximum speed. Her feet slid into her toasty socks and then her warm shoes before she grabbed her coat and some other documents as she left her office. She walked down the long corridors, where pictures of recently deceased Ministry members hung. She stiffly turned her face straight forward, not even glancing at the plaques adorning the otherwise dull walls of the building.

Hermione _never _turned her head to look at the pictures. Too many painful memories and the faces of her passed friends haunted her still. She knew she'd cry if she looked at them. Tears blurred her vision and her eyes stung as she resisted the grief that threatened to overtake her.

After all, Hermione wasn't really fond of crying.

She walked on, her lips tight with a smile that hid her emotions with practiced ease as she left the building, bidding everyone a good night. The brown-haired girl found the streets still riddled with puddles and the sky dark with another cloud of rain.

Hermione Granger continued her trek towards her home, this time making sure to avoid puddles.

* * *

Draco Malfoy, sitting on his sofa, stared at the vibrant red umbrella propped up on the auburn antique table before him. His handsome face was scrunched up with contemplation. Why did she have to pick such a _Gryffindor _color for an umbrella, anyway? Why the hell had he brought it home? He let out an agonized sigh, leaning against the dark cushions of his seat, running a hand through his recently-showered hair. 

He couldn't see her again. His business had been deftly completed and he'd be damned if he stepped into the muggle world again. Did she even live in that horrible place?

The umbrella continued to burn into his eyes.

"I don't want to see her again," Draco spoke softly to himself, lips drawn into a fierce scowl he had been practicing since his childhood, "damn Mudblood,"

But he still tasted her lingering presence upon his lips…

He still felt those dark locks of hair intertwined between his fingers.

Her warmth flooded him even now.

Draco closed his eyes, opened them, and then closed them again. In a sudden fury, he stood up from his place and paced around the room. Once in a while, he glanced at the red pile of waterproof cloth sitting upon his table. His internal battle was won, and he came to a conclusion he had reasoned himself into.

The blond picked up the umbrella, dragging it up towards his room, "…I suppose it would be rude of me to _not _return such an important item, anyways"

* * *

Author's Note: Well, there you have it, my first HP fic. I thought this was going to be a one-shot at first, but I guess not. After all, Draco _will _eventually have to see her again for all of our sick fantasies to work out, right? I love to read reviews, so if you like it, please feel free to tell me so I may find the motivation to continue this piece. Until then, bye bye. 


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: I know, I haven't updated in forever. But at least now you know I'm not dead. I'll meet you at the bottom.

* * *

"Draco Malfoy,"

His name whispered through the otherwise silent Department of Magical Law Enforcement. His steely eyes scanned the room, a stoic expression set onto his pale face. One hand was tucked into his coat pocket, the tip of his left finger deftly stroking the tip of his wand. A growl of frustration escaped him; the woman at the visitor's entrance had told him that Hermione Granger was indeed within the Ministry before she gave him his visitor's badge, so why was it that she wasn't here now?

His right hand clutched the red umbrella, which stood out ridiculously against his black-clothed form. He couldn't resist tapping the plastic tip of the damned thing against the dark, polished wood of the Auror Headquarters. The noise rang even amidst all the chaos within the Ministry that was still being pieced together.

_Tap._

_Tap._

_Tap._

Some of the aurors glared at him angrily over the walls of their cubicles, the disgust evident in their eyes. _Of course_, Draco scoffed. A Slytherin nowadays couldn't step out into a public place without being the target of public scorn. Draco simply glared back, but they were aurors for a reason, and they held their grounds.

A small elf, carrying a rather large stack of paper, hobbled around Draco's legs, breaking the blond's small battle with the aurors. Its crooked nose bumped into the clean sheets of paper every once in a while.

The young wizard, realizing his reluctance to speak to any of the Ministry personnel, immediately stuck the tip of the red umbrella in the path of the elf, effectively tripping the poor thing. Sniffing in disdain, the creature quickly gathered the flying sheets, stacking them once more into a clean stack. The war hadn't changed an elf's social status in the Wizarding World at all; they were still slaved creatures, pathetic and displeasing in Draco's eyes. Nevertheless, he needed to find the Mudblood, and anything was better than an auror to him.

"Elf," Draco began, his voice laced with command, tapping the shoulder of the tiny thing with Hermione's item, "Where's Hermione Granger?" he didn't realize his lip was drawn into a scowl that altered his image to that of his father's. If he had known, Draco would have immediately stopped – Lucius brought nothing but painful memories to him now. He eventually stopped even visiting. All Lucius could talk about – in his deranged state – was about the amount of disappointment Draco gave him.

_"The last remnant of the Dark Lord exists even now Draco…" _

The fallen elf looked up at him, peering from under lenses of enormous proportions, "Ms. Granger left not a few moments ago, Sir,"

_"Redeem our family's name…"_

"When?" his voice was smooth, but the left hand in his pocket was gripping his wand in frustration.

_"Make me __**proud**__,"_

"Just now, Sir," the elf's voice shriveled under Draco's evidently growing anger, the stack of paper wavering violently as the small creature folded his large ears back and crouched, shivering slightly.

Draco left without a word, the umbrella dragging behind him on the polished floors.

* * *

Hermione walked towards the library, dark honey-colored curls bouncing as she made haste. She was clutching a small stack of books in her arms, held closely against her bosom lovingly. A sigh of relief escaped her once she reached the oak doors, grateful that the building had not closed for the day – she still had five minutes to check out other books for a bit of light reading. Her palms pressed against the door, the wood smooth and cool in sharp contrast to the inviting heat inside. The familiar bell chimed above her head.

Here, she felt home.

A plump woman came to greet her, white strands of hair haphazardly bundled together in a loose bun, her eyes reflecting a wild and wily spirit. She was one of the few souls that shared Hermione's love and respect for books.

"Hermione Granger! I thought that you would actually be late in returning your books!" the librarian laughed heartily, her deep, mature voice ringing throughout the otherwise silent structure.

The auror gave a grin, shaking her head as she dropped the books onto the counter, "Never, Glenda. You know I've never missed a due date," she flexed her fingers, hoping to get some heat back into her numb fingers, "It's so _cold _nowadays," she frowned at the unusual weather conditions as Glenda nodded in wholehearted agreement.

Ever since the heavy downpour, the wizarding world maintained a dark cloud, looming over a great portion of the once-clear skies. It threatened her with another miserable day under the shelter of some unknown edifice. She scowled at the memory, why had she stayed there anyways? After all, she _had _had her umbrella with her…

Hermione's scowl melted into confusion, and her confusion melted into pure shock. Her arms felt slightly lighter – awkwardly lighter.

Her umbrella -- where had she put it?

She bit back the urge to cry out in frustration once she realized when she had last seen it, besides a black lump of cloth.

Next to his cloak-- she scowled in distaste-- Draco Malfoy's cloak.

"Are…you okay, 'hon?" Glenda's strong voice broke her out of her reverie.

Hermione flashed the librarian a quick smile, "I'm fine…I just remembered that I forgot something," she hurried towards the door, "I'll borrow some books tomorrow, will you have some recommendations set on the counter for me?" she left in a flurry of brown locks of hair and beige cloak.

_Perhaps it's still there, _Hermione muttered silent prayers to some unknown deity, _or maybe that bastard burned it just to piss me off…_

Somehow, she found herself doubting her accusation against Draco.

And it scared her.

She hated to admit it, but his whole being scared her. His sharp facial features made him deceptively handsome, and his impossibly blond hair made him seem harmless.

Innocent.

But of course she knew better. She could still feel the rush of adrenaline whenever she thought of the final battle. She still felt the weight of the blood-soaked robe clinging to her skin, none of it hers. She'd thought she lost Ron and Harry, running around the basement tunnels of Voldemort's headquarters. Tears had clung to her eyes, and her fingers had scrapped against the stone walls. Her mouth had been impossibly dry, despite the fact that she had vomited at the sight of the bodies.

There had been so many bodies.

Neville had caught her eye. He had been hyperventilating, his wand still gripped in his hand. Neville had looked so tired.

_Who is it? _Trying so hard to be brave, _I can't let you pass here. _His voice had never stopped quaking.

_It's me, Neville. _Her voice had been thick with tension and a bit of sorrow for the boy. He shouldn't have grown up so quickly. _Hermione. Are you hurt?_

_Liar. You can't be Hermione. She's dead. Everyone's dead. _

_I'm here. I'm not lying. _

_…But the green light…_ His hand had started to shake, the fragile wood of his wand shuddering furiously against the floor. His blood glistened under the wand's flickering light. Robe clinging, tears dried on his face. _Harry said – Harry told me not to let anyone pass. _

She remembered him in his first year. How he had stood up to the three of them to keep Gryffindor from getting into further trouble. He had looked so frightened then. He was fragile now. Yet perhaps he had been the bravest of them all.

_Neville, please. I need to find Harry--_

_I think I'm going to die here, Hermione. _

_No-no-no, don't say that. You're going to live. _

_…Liar. _

The tears had blurred her vision. She had been thankful for that. Her ears had heard his wand cluttering loudly against the floor as his body convulsed, apologies and promises and reassurances still pouring out of his dried mouth. Only when the sound had died away, had she found enough courage to approach his silent form.

_I'm sorry…I'm sorry…_

Hermione Granger was still sorry; infinitely sorry that she had survived to hear everyone in their past – alive and well. In the future, she only saw ghosts.

_Tap, tap, tap…_

Was she still hearing his wand clicking against the damned floor? She felt the goose bumps rise along with the hairs on the back of her neck. The tears were so endless.

"Granger," Hermione whirled, grey eyes filling her vision as she stared at Draco Malfoy.

He was a killer, a murderer. He was deceptively handsome, and his impossibly blond hair made him seem harmless; the epitome of innocence. He was a killer, a murderer; a killer, a murderer.

And Neville is still there, and the sound of his wand clattering against the floor is still ringing in her ear.

Hermione started to cry.

* * *

A sharp insult had been all ready, Draco had played small scenes in his mind to insure his victory should he and Hermione exchange a bout of words again as he approached her. The umbrella dragged behind him, creating a familiar tapping sound against the stone pavement. Hermione didn't notice him.

Some auror she was.

A smug smirk had been prepared, carefully laid out over his countenance, making sure he angered the young witch to his fullest potential. He would remind her of the kiss, insult her of her blood origins, throw her umbrella somewhere far off, and then walk off while telling her to fetch. His smirk never faltered in his mental scenes.

However, reality is often completely different from the figments of his imagination.

In reality, the smirk disappeared instantaneously as he met her tears. He hadn't seen her cry in years; a small guilty feeling lingered in his chest ---even when he had been a child, making fun of her, the same guilty feeling had always lingered. His scene was completely off.

She tried to walk away from him, his hand grasped hers, and the umbrella crashed to the floor. Draco completely forgot her blood origins. Only one thing remained the same from his practiced mental dialogues: he reminded her of their kiss, his lips crashing violently into hers as he enveloped her shaking figure in his arms. She shuddered, lashes fluttering.

_A killer, a murderer…killer…murderer…_ the small mantra left her lips as soon as they broke apart.

_I know, I know…you're right… _Draco's reply whispered against her tear stained cheeks, _a killer, a murderer…that's who I am. _His arms wrapped even tighter around her, burying his face into the crook of her neck. Rain started to fall.

_Do you mind? _He asked for a little acceptance. He needed finality --- an end. Did she mind that she was in his arms? Did she mind that he was the one who was comforting her at her moment of weakness? Not Harry…not Ron. _Him. _

Hermione laughed –a bitter, melancholy laugh—and shook her head as she clung onto his shoulders.

She was drowning, and he was saving her.

* * *

"This is a mistake."

Draco's blue eyes darted over to Hermione's figure, slumped on the couch, her fingers desperately clutching onto the dark green towel he had lent her to dry off. Her strained voice gave away the fact that she was trying to be brave--- perhaps to redeem herself. He simply walked over, placing a mug filled with a swirling, foggy substance in front of her.

Her eyes followed his hands, and then peered into the cup. Her nose wrinkled in confusion.

"What _is _that?" for a moment, her voice reflected the curious, yet slightly snobby, tone from her childhood; always curious, and so always knowledgeable.

Malfoy allowed himself a small laugh –_inwardly _of course – and proceeded to sketch a small scowl onto his lips.

"A family recipe," was the simple answer. His father always stressed simplicity, and therefore his entire family endorsed it. Everything his damned father said; they always endorsed them, "It should help with the chills."

Her slender fingers wrapped around the elegant body of the cup, lifting it closer to herself for closer inspection. Draco was completely entranced by her movements. They were so...human. The witch's smallest movements seemed to radiate humanity; warmth and love and all of those emotions that his father had said were crap.

Draco bit the inside of his cheek to bring himself back into reality. A bitter copper taste splashed over his tongue.

Hermione sniffed the liquid, her eyes closing in order to better her sense of smell, "This smells very intriguing…" she took a reluctant sip and instantly made a face, "…and apparently _tastes _like---."

"---shit," Draco was happy to finish it for her. No doubt, Hermione had been looking for a more refined word, but Draco didn't need for the truth to be sugarcoated. It was his family recipe; of course he knew what it tasted like.

She gave a shy smile – his heart _couldn't _have beat faster; he was supposed to have no emotions! – and nodded in response. Her fingers gripped the dark green material on her lap.

"This is a mistake…" she muttered once more, her eyes staring into the foggy liquid inside her mug because she couldn't meet his eyes. So many of her friends flashed past her memories when she met the stormy orbs, and then she felt guilty; so many strange sensations from his kisses would return and engulf the precious memories of her friends.

She couldn't forget them so easily; she would never let herself forget so easily. Her fingers gently released the cup back onto the table, and returned to clutching the green towel on her lap.

For now, the towel was her only security. If she let go, she would lose herself forever to the Slytherin and her Gryffindor would suffer the most horrible death. She would never fly again, trapped within the vice-grip of the serpent's body. Or was he saving her? The memories sometimes threatened to consume her and she fell down down down _down _in a spiral. Everything was beautiful and everything was _fine _until she slowed down her activities to rest a bit. If she put her book down, if she stopped working, if she ceased to connect with her colleagues, the memories consumed her and she no longer felt useful to the Muggle or Wizarding World.

She desperately wanted to be useful –she needed to make up for her lack of resources during the Great War between Voldemort and Harry. She needed to redeem herself for letting them all go…

Hermione took a deep breath.

She clenched the towel.

She stood up.

"Malfoy—," she tried to steady her trembling hands, "Thank you for your hospitality," _it was more than I expected _"but I believe it's time for me to go." _I hope I'll never meet you ever again. _

_I believe I'll shatter if I do. _

The witch walked towards him, her steps heavy. No, no, _no_—her steps were supposed to be light. They were supposed to be light and unworried and unhesitant as she readied to take flight to return to her home; to her friends and to her world. Her hand extended to drop the green towel into Draco's lap. The whole scene was only a few seconds, really, but to her it seemed an eternity. To Hermione Granger, it seemed like one of those overly dramatized, overly extended, and _overly _romantic goodbye-scenes she had read many times in her beloved novels.

His eyes were so grey! The flecks of blue remaining made her wonder if his eyes had once glittered with vibrant colors in his youth. She couldn't remember. She hadn't paid too much attention to him while they had attended Hogwarts.

_But you do remember him. You remember him when you hit him in your third year and you remember him when he…_

_Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. _

"Good bye," she turned and walked away stiffly, still trying to decide between running away with the lightening speed of a Nogtail or with the slow pace of a Streeler, hoping that he would somehow stop her from leaving. As she walked further and further away, her resolution to never see the ex-Death Eater ever again grew stronger, her steps grew lighter, and her form stronger –she bordered on arrogance as she walked away from Draco Malfoy.

_Stop her. Stop her. Stop her. _

Draco sat on his sofa, dumbfounded, as she began to fade away. Suddenly, it was very, _very _cold. He blamed the damp towel sitting on his lap, but it didn't explain the growing chill inside him – it was like he was sitting outside underneath that awning in that damned rainstorm again. He was frozen and miserable; he was dying again.

_At least you'd still be with her if you were under that awning again, you idiot. _

She seemed to be walking faster away from him as time passed –oh it seemed an eternity!—and he began to shiver.

_Go and grab her. Don't let her get away again. _

He stood up, the green towel dropping from his lap to the floor with a wet thump. His eyes scanned the room for an excuse to get to her.

Any excuse –anything!

His fingers twitched as he spotted the red umbrella leaning where Hermione had left it yet again. He thanked whatever entity out there for helping the umbrella and its absurd brightness stand out in the dull, dark colors of his living room. He grabbed it and ran.

_That's it. Reach out your hand and grab her. Don't let her go._

_Don't let her go. _

_**Ever**_

"Granger," his hand reached out, and grabbed her wrist.

Hermione turned. Was Malfoy stopping her from leaving? Her heart fluttered and her body stiffened.

Draco gripped the umbrella painfully before putting it into her open palm, "Here," _For Salazar's sake, that was __**so **__lame, Draco! _"You forgot this."

A foreign object pressed into her hand. She looked down, her brows furrowed in confusion. The bright red of her long lost umbrella burned into her eyes. She should've been happy to have been reminded.

"Oh…" a small nervous laugh came out of her (oh, she was acting so…so _girly_!), "Thank you…" she turned to finish her grand exit, which had already been ruined in her opinion.

_Stop walking away from him._

_**Stop her you idiot.**_

_Don't leave, Hermione._

_**Grab her, Draco. **_

_You're drowning in your memories…and he's saving you._

_**You're dying in the cold…and she's saving you.**_

Her feet didn't move. Her back was turned against him, her hand was biting into the wooden handle of the umbrella, and her other hand was stretched out against her will, expecting his touch. Hermione felt very foolish; her body wouldn't move at all.

_Grab my hand…don't let me drown._

Draco stared at the hand sticking out rather oddly from Hermione's stiff figure. It was trembling –her entire body was trembling –and his fingers twitched with the need to grab it. Maybe he needed her –no! That was foolish…a Malfoy didn't need _anyone _but himself.

Draco didn't know that he was trembling as much as Hermione.

_Grab her hand…you need her warmth, Draco. _

It was a flurry of motion. It wasn't like their first kiss, which was a moment that was slow and trance-like, brought on by misery and the need for comfort. There was no gentle caress of her brown locks and there was no confused expression of fear. It was like a whirlwind, quick and breathtaking; utterly disoriented and messy.

In a sudden burst of strength, he grabbed her hand and pulled her towards him with too much force, and she crashed into him, a mess of wet locks and damp clothing. Her umbrella flew from her hand onto the floor as she gave a small, surprised yelp and clung desperately onto Draco's shoulders for support. They both fell, in a strangely synchronized moment, unceremoniously onto the cold marble floor rather painfully.

Surprised, sharp breaths rang out in Draco's large home, the only sound of life within the vast mansion. Her slender fingers were still intertwined within the cloth covering his shoulders, and her face was buried in the crook of his neck, her breaths tickling his skin. Hermione didn't attempt to move; if she did, then he would plainly see the horrifyingly red blush on her cheeks and she would never live down the humiliation of sprawling onto Draco's fallen body.

_A very well-toned body. Oh, just shut __**up**__, Hermione. _

Draco, it a dazed moment, wrapped his arms around her figure, pressing her closer against him. He felt her bosom press against him, her wet clothing meshing into his own, the beige cloak awkwardly enveloping the left side of her body.

_She was still here. _

He didn't know what came over him. Perhaps it was all those repressed emotions from his childhood surging up for attention at last. He rolled her over, propping himself up on his elbows as he stared down at her face. A terrible blush was covering the span of her cheeks, as she tried unsuccessfully to look angry.

"This is the _stupidest _thing you've done, Draco Malfoy," her voice was strained, cracking in random places, "You let me go –do you know what could happen to you--," she couldn't find a valid argument. Her words were lost in the thick tension.

He leaned down, and she stiffened, afraid that they'd kiss again. However, instead of the soft press of lips against her own, she felt and heard him whisper words to her that made all her resolution shatter as she clung to him more than ever.

_"It was never about the umbrella, Hermione…" _

She nodded in acceptance, and she stayed there, on the cold, hard ground; the Gryffindor let the Slytherin wrap around her as she threw herself off of the edge of her world.

For the first time after the end of the Great War, Hermione Granger felt her wings flap and her spirit rise.

Within the Slytherin's embrace, the Gryffindor _flew_.

* * *

Author's Note: No, this is _not _the end of Entre Nous. There are still one or two chapters left, depending on the level of inspiration left. I know that you guys waited a long time for me to update, and I thank you. I know I suck for leaving you guys to dry…I'll make it up to you somehow.

I love reviews guys, and I hope that my lack of activity will not deter you from reviewing.

Then, until next time!


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Guess what? I'm alive…well, enjoy the epilogue!

Everything sparkles marvelously. Her long gown shimmers around her pale legs and his eyes helplessly follow her figure. He has no idea why he's here, doesn't comprehend the reason why he's in his best suit and cloak, with his hair styled more carefully than normal; surrounded by Aurors, standing on Hogwarts grounds, eyes darting once in a while to the tomb of the great Albus Dumbledore before coming to a rest on a young witch with chestnut hair and warm honey-colored eyes.

He wants to leave. His fingers grip his shirt nervously under his cloak while his face remains impassive and unbelievably stoic. He makes up his mind and readies himself to leave as quietly as possible, but a blast of music and a whirlwind of flower pedals stop him short.

Draco sits back down and mentally damns himself for failing to leave. He's sure that his face must look miserable right now, nose scrunched up, lips turned upside-down, eyes closed –he opens them and they come to rest on a young witch with chestnut hair and warm honey-colored eyes. He eyes her almost hungrily, taking in her slim figure and those endless legs, her full lips tilted slightly into a shy smile.

His legs jerk, betraying their master's thoughts: he should've been the first one to compliment her on her amber gown, outlining and defining the curves usually hidden under a thick cloak. He takes his eyes off of her for one moment, to glare at his rebelling limbs, and when he looks up, she is there.

Their eyes meet, as they have so many times before, but there is no contempt in their souls today. Today, her eyes gaze warmly at his and he can feel those warm wings wrapping around his cold-blooded body once more.

* * *

The rest of the evening is a blur. He remembers her laughter and her smiles, which showed off a perfect row of white teeth every time. He remembers the warmth of her back underneath his palms as he spinned her underneath the stars, her shoes stumbling over his perfectly trained feet. All these memories are minor details, but they haunt him still.

Those kisses! Oh, he remembers those with not only his mind, but also with his body. Blood rushes to his cheeks as he thinks back to those full lips pressed against his own, slow in their movement as if they were the most tender of all lovers. He swears he can still feel her bosom pressed against his chest, heaving with that almost violent passion Gryffindors are born with.

He smiles, remembering Hermione's impatience as he and she ran out, hand-in-hand, her brown curls fluttering behind her as she wished Potter and his new wife the best of everything.

Their return home just as hurried as everything else, Draco can still feel those long limbs wrapped around his as they stumbled through the front door, clumsily slipping out of their shoes, almost falling onto the cold marble floor of his mansion.

A soft groan shakes him out of his reverie, and Draco hesitantly slides his fingers across a cool sheet to seek the phantom of his dreams. Her deep, slow breathing contrasts with the shallow, quick thumps of his heart. He does not dare to look at her, afraid that she might disappear. His fingers find hers, and he is quick to intertwine the digits, determined not to lose her, as he moves closer to her warmth, seeking shelter underneath those wings that never fail to preserve him again and again and again…

Author's Note: Yeah, I know. _Very _short epilogue, compared to the _very _long wait. I apologize. However, on the bright side, now that E.N. is over and done with, I can finally start on other projects (hopefully soon). For those of you who stuck around for this, you have my eternal gratitude


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